Game of Kings - Dorothy Dunnett [14]
Bullo raised an eyebrow. “So the Master’s money is on England, is it? Now that, Matthew, is interesting.”
The other shrugged and bawled an order across the yard. “God knows; but he sent Jess’s Joe after to make sure the message reached Annan safely. Did you want him? He’ll be back directly. He turned off with Dandy-puff for a minute just before we came in.”
Bullo showed his teeth. “And in drink, maybe? It would be nice to have him civil, for once.”
There was no chance to comment. As he spoke, three riders passed through the gate and drew rein: two were the Master of Culter and the man Dandy-puff, while the third was a stranger, a young man, tied to his horse and wild about it. Johnnie Bullo’s smile widened. “Hell’s hell again: the de’il’s back.”
Francis Crawford of Lymond, Master of Culter, was neat as a pin and stone sober. He dismounted, emitting a feu de joie of explicit orders: the prisoner was unhorsed and unbound, the animals led away, and the muddle in the yard cut up to shape instantly. “God!” said Matthew in simple admiration. “He’s got a tongue on him like a thorn tree.” And they watched him approach, the stranger trailing sulkily behind.
As at the sack of his mother’s home, Lymond was lavishly dressed. The knowledgeable gypsy eyes scanned the dairy-maid skin, the gilded hair, the long hands, jewelled to display their beauty while the Master, serenely smiling, returned the compliment under relaxed lids.
“Johnnie, my night-black familiar. Civility’s nearly as dull as sobriety and I cannot—will not—be labelled dull. I have peper and piones, and a pound of garlik; a ferthing-worth of fenel-seed for fasting dayes, but dullness have I none: nor am I overfond of being discussed, my Johnnie.”
“You’ve quick ears, Lymond.”
“But yours, like Midas whispering in the hole, are closer to the ground.… What do you think of our new recruit?”
If the gypsy found the question surprising, or the reference offensive which it undoubtedly was, he showed nothing of it, but simply turned and bent an admiring glance on the tall young figure behind Lymond.
“My, my. He’s a bonny blossom to be let away from his nurse.”
The stranger flushed. He was a graceful creature, with fair skin and a thatch of carroty curls. His clothes, of a thoroughly expensive and unostentatious kind, were a credit to tailor and souter: his scabbard and accoutrements were inlaid and ornamented with a little more brio than the rule.
“—And his fancy hat!” breathed Matthew in awe.
The newcomer addressed Lymond with dignity. “I must confess to disappointment. Do you mete out this kind of treatment to every gentleman who offers you his sword?”
“Big words, too!”
Turkey Mat was silenced by the Master’s hand. Lymond, his back to the stone dike at one end of the yard, crossed his legs gently before him and instantly the yard, led by curiosity and its hope of a rough-house, deployed itself. Turkey and Bullo, grinning, ranged themselves on either side of the Master. The young man, stranded perforce in an open circle, stood his ground.
“Oh, Marigold!” Lymond spoke plaintively. “A silken tongue, a heart of cruelty. Don’t berate us. We’re only poor scoundrels—vagabonds—scraps of society; unlettered and untaught. Besides, we didn’t believe you.”
“Well, you can believe me now,” said the young man belligerently. “I didn’t ride all the way from—all this way to find you just to pass a dull Tuesday. I’m taken to be a fair fighting man. I’m prepared to join you; and I’d guess you need all the swords you can get. Unless you’re overnervous, of course.”
“Terror,” said Lymond, “is our daily bread in the Wuthenheer. We eat it, we live by it and we disseminate it; and not only between Christmas and Epiphany: there is no close season for fright. So you want to join us. Shall I take you? Mat, my friend, awful and stern, strong and corpulent—what do you say?”
Turkey was in no doubt. “I’d want to know a good bit more about the laddie, sir, before I had him next me with a knife.”
“Oh,” said Lymond, “would you? And what about